


You Can't Escape

by Agent_Pumpkin01



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, Abusive Relationships, F/M, Impractical Jokers - Freeform, Impractical Jokers fanfiction, Kidnapping, Self-Insert, Stockholm Syndrome, Toxic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Pumpkin01/pseuds/Agent_Pumpkin01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian Quinn is a lot of things but you never thought a raging psychopath would be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confrontation

Not knowing is the worst.

You don’t know what you’re doing here, in this cold and empty room, the only reminder that you’re alive being the way you flinch in fear when you hear thundering footsteps cross above you. You don’t know what he smears across your face as he circles you and tells you that he’s had a satisfying day, how the highlight of it is right now as he stares at you, touches you. You don’t know why he’s doing this.

You just don’t know.

The door you’ve come accustomed to hearing opens slowly, a distinct creak of worn metal on hinges that are a few years too old. An involuntary whimper leaves your mouth - you wish you could see what was happening but the thick black blindfold tied at the back of your head prevents you; and the tape over your mouth has you struggling to breathe. Warm breath fans against your ear and you shy away to the best of your ability, bound hands twitching in your lap while your body arches as much as the ropes around your torso will allow in an attempt to get away from him. A tight grip in your hair tears a muffled yelp past your lips.

 **“No,”** he breathes, and though his tone is deathly quiet it carries the weight of a thousand threats, has you frozen as ice travels down your spine and causes you to stiffen with terror. **“…moving away after all I’ve done for you. _Bitch_.”**

Out of everything it’s the expletive that makes you riled and, before you can even think about what you’re doing, a muffled ‘fuck you’ escapes you. God, you’re so scared you could cry - or vomit, and that is something you do not want to think about while your mouth is firmly clamped shut - but you’ve always been defiant, always had fire. Perhaps that was a contributing factor to why Brian had taken you in the first place.

An airy chuckle is released from the confines of his throat, low and husky, and the shift of metal against his pant-leg has you swallowing hard. He’s cut you before and it stung for days.

 **“I’m gonna remove this tape–”** And without warning, your captor pulls the tape from your lips, the relief of oxygen overridden by the searing pain on your face. **“–and you’re gonna repeat what you just said to me.”**

Lips clamp closed and you shake your head no, knowing that the words will earn you something you never wanted. A beating; a few cuts; maybe a few bites that break your skin as he reminds you that you’re his and he won’t have you disrespecting him, if he’s feeling kind.

**“I’m sorry…”**

A sob threatens to choke you to death as the psychopath rips your blindfold off, sending your head jerking back as fingers close around your throat lightly, pads of fingers occasionally digging in to the skin as he leans in once more, smooth voice so venomous you could have wilted to death right there.

**“Repeat it or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”**

**“…f-fuck… you…”**

The sensation of falling is the next thing you feel and it takes a moment for you to realise what has happened. Brian had moved in front of you, had raised his leg and kicked you right over. Your head hits the hard floor with a sickening thump, tears springing to the corners of your eyes as you stare, dazed, up at the ceiling before he comes into view, looming over you like an animal that had finally caught its prey.

It is at times like these where you take him in, picture him, remember him, for the naive hope that you can escape and send this bastard down hard still exists deep in the very core of your being. The dark eyes that pierced the dullness of the room; the mop of hair, impossibly soft in appearance; the hefty build, from biceps that made you shudder to legs that possessed so much strength you doubted their authenticity. Brian Quinn. The man who had seemed so sweet before it had all gone to shit.

The fact that he’s wearing a Superman shirt may have been amusing to you had you not felt your head had been smashed with a sledgehammer.

 **“…I am _stunned_ ,”** Brian admits, though the sneer on his face makes your very existence sink. You’re going to get hurt, you know it. As if doing it to confirm your beliefs, a heavy boot rests on your chest. **“That you would have the nerve to say that shit to me. Don’t you know what I’m risking, keeping you here with me?”**

The fact that he truly believes he’s a victim of your cruelty almost makes you laugh - but you’ve done that before, right to his face, and it had landed you with a wallop to the cheek so hard the bruise hadn’t faded for weeks. You’ve learnt, despite your resilience, Brian always comes out on top and so it’s best to remain silent, pitiful even.

**“The next time you say something like that you’ll be choking on your own blood, because I’ll slit your fucking throat. Understand?”**

The tip of his boot digs into your throat, makes you gag, and you nod with such reverence you feel your neck will snap. Slowly, he removes the pressure and reaches down with strong arms to pull you up, tutting when one of the legs of the chair veers to the side with a wobble. Brian gives you a pointed look, as if to say ‘look what you’ve done now’.

What happens next stuns you: his hand splays against your face, feather-light and gentle, and the only thing that keeps you from flinching away again is the fact that he will hurt you.

**“…I care so much about you, [Y/N].”**

Inhaling thickly as his lips press to your cheek, your eyes close and a shudder of horror passes through you as you realise your cheeks have flushed lightly. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

 **“Don’t make me hurt you, baby…”** he whispers, lips trailing from the side of your face to the delicate skin of your neck, past bruises aligning your skin like paint flung carelessly on a canvas. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth and it takes everything in you not to throw up. **“I don’t want to hurt you… I just wanna keep you… you understand, right?”**

Nodding your head, you dare to raise your bound wrists and touch the side of his face with your knuckles. It’s revolting, how you are being forced to pretend that none of this bothers you, that you’re not scared out of your mind, that he’s not in the wrong. You’re all but relieved when he jerks away from your fingers, refusing to let you touch him. For a moment, it appears as if he’s going to say something… but instead his lips form a tight line and he pulls away.

“…I was gonna untie you today,” he says matter-o-factly. You feel your heart sinking already. **“…but given our little… _confrontation_ , I don’t think that’s best right now.”**

**“Brian–”**

**“Later.”**

It takes everything in you to not cry out, to not beg him, and the only thing that stops you is that you’ve tried before and gotten nowhere with him. He doesn’t have an empathetic bone in his body and you won’t be swayed by kind words that appear as your saviour; he’s nothing but a monster, a demon shrouded in murderous politics and ideals - and it sickens you, it really does.

Staring hopelessly at his retreating back, you can only hope he’ll see sense - and, much more to the point, that he’ll _feed you today_.


	2. The Beginnings of a Plan

**_“Brian, the skyline is beautiful!”_ **

_There’s an admiration in your eyes that he’s never seen before and it takes everything in his power not to take you against the car right there. He’s taken you on quite a trek, up a mountainside on a cold night so that the sky is clear and the stars are evident; a beautiful sight and, as you stand at the edge with Brian’s arm around your waist and his body behind your own, the only thing that could make him even more intoxicated is if you both fall._

_His gaze is calculated and your voice, sweet as it is, fades into the background. He only has so long to wait before you’re his... and then you can be with him for the rest of your days. Perhaps some would accuse him of being cliché, but he is a firm believer that something is not a cliche if it is plausible - and it’s very possible that he’s going to end up keeping you alongside him, even if he has to force you._

_**“Not as beautiful as you,”** he remarks, and though it’s passive his lips raise in a half smile as you scoff and reach your hand backwards to slap him lightly on the chest._

_**“Idiot,”** you reply, though you don’t deny the colour in your cheeks. You’re flattered, graciously at that. **“You get off on making lame comments like that?”**_

_He laughs, genuinely, because he’s always appreciated your spunk. **“I did stoop a little, didn’t I?”**_

**_“Damn right you big gumball.”_ **

X X

The next time you open your eyes is to the feel of something wet on your face. A dribble of water, and then fingers filing through your unwashed hair as if it’s the finest silk they’ve ever touched. Instantly you know who it is, the only person it can be.

You’re starving, beyond parched, and here comes Brian with a bottle of water and something on a plate, nudging it towards you as if it’s God’s gift. You have half a mind to get up and attack him, though you know you’re in no state to do so. Besides, (and this is aside from the fact that you’re bound to a chair) what chance would you really have? He’s bigger than you, tougher than you, crueller than you-- there’s not a chance in hell you would beat him, even in your best condition.

Instead you stare up at him blankly, wait for him to say something. He doesn’t, instead pours a small amount of water onto his fingers and splashes your face with it, apparently trying to drag you into consciousness. A hoarse moan leaves your throat, scratchy and weak.

 **“Wake up - eat something. Drink. Before you get sick,”** mumbles Brian, and had you not known him at all you would have assumed he cared about you. Properly. In a not-totally-insane way. Silently you long for that - how could you have gone so wrong? You hate him, but with even more shame, you hate yourself for falling for it.

That being said, you know what happens when you disobey him, so when he puts the opening of the bottle to your lips and pours a small amount down your throat, you accept it without complaint, eyes closing as cool relief fills you from the inside out.

When he pulls it away, the man regards your face with a softness that makes you uncomfortable.

 **“Good,”** he praises, raising the food to your lips this time. You want to obey just to avoid confrontation... but you feel so sick you could vomit right then and there. With a light whimper and a raise of your bound wrists, you shake your head. **“[Y/N]. _Eat_.”**

You suppose you never learn because you shake your head again and it is to your horror that the man growls loudly with annoyance, drags your chair over to the wall so that he can lean it against it, throws a leg over your knees and forces the food - bread, you discover - past the confines of your lips.

 **“Get it fucking down you!”** He shouts, rage overriding his features. You sob at the invasion, unable to breathe through the mess of crust, eventually swallowing because there’s nowhere else for it to go. Tears leak down your face, lungs screaming for air while he pulls away and admires his handiwork. Why wouldn’t he? You’ve been fed. You won’t die on him. **“Maybe next time you’ll do as you’re--”**

Before he can finish, you throw your head to the side and vomit, stomach rejecting the consumption after a period without sustenance. Brian is about to lose his temper all over again... but the rate at which you’re sobbing has his attention, your tied wrists raising from your lap and reaching for him.

Unbeknownst to you, this has the psychopath easing. You need him. You’re crying, and on the brink of unconsciousness, and you need him. The thought makes a pang of heat rush to his belly, mind flipping upside down as his obsession for you blooms into something dangerous. Dependence fuels his desires to keep you, has him believing he’s succeeding.

The man advances, bottle of water at the ready as he takes your face in his hands and shushes you.

 **“I’m sorry, [Y/N]... I just want you to be healthy,”** he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before easing the bottle to your lips. Because it washes the foul taste away, you allow it, even welcome it, screwing your eyes tightly with disgust as he pulls you close and breathes you in. It’s the least to say you’re not flattering right now, the bitter tang of sweat emanating from your body and the new aroma of vomit on your breath - but he holds you anyway, despite all that, and had you been more naive, more stupid, you’d have been happy about it.

But the gears in your head are turning. You’ve had more than enough time to think, being cramped in this dingy little room, and it’s time to begin putting yourself into action; because if you don’t you’re going to die, and nobody is going to know where you’ve gone. Nobody is going to care either. You have to get away from him. You’re determined to do that much.

And what better way to do it than to give in to what he wants? Or at least, give the impression that you’ve given in. With the most pitiful whimper you have in you (and balanced with the fact that you hate vomiting, it really isn’t that hard), you let one of your hands lightly grasp at the fabric of his jacket. Feeling him flinch, though not in fear but aggression, you look at him pleadingly.

**“Brian, it’s so lonely down here... I want to spend time with you again, like we did before...”**

Q gives you a firm look and you can tell it’s not enough; you need to up your game if you want to survive.

**“I-I don’t want to leave-- I just want to be around you. I miss you...please let me spend time with you. It’s all I want...”**

Slowly, the crease in his brow fades. It isn’t disbelief that marks his features any more. You know that Brian isn’t stupid, that he’s not going to fall for shit. You have to stick to your guns, make yourself believe that you want to be with him until you can get enough freedom to be able to get the fuck out. It’s with wet eyes that you stare up at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth in the fashion you know drives him crazy (he’d said so once on one of the many of your dates, though you have to wonder how much of it was real).

Eventually, through the silence, he turns away, **“You wait here.”**

And for an assortment of tense minutes in which consist of him walking around the house, you sitting there with bated breath (and why the hell had he even made that comment in the first place considering you can’t move?), you wonder if you can actually pull this off. Only time will tell - whether you live or die is completely down to how pathetic you can act.

When Brian returns, he has a pair of scissors in his hands. Making quick work of the rope around your waist, you stand on legs that are half asleep due to the fact that they haven’t been used in a while now and you offer your wrists towards him. He shakes his head.

**“You think I’m stupid? I pity you, I don’t trust you. Not yet. I love you, [Y/N], but I know how difficult you are. No, they’re staying put.”**


	3. Complacency

To say it isn’t the grand escape that you’d pictured is the understatement of the century. Not only did Brian not release you but he followed you like a shadow, whether physically or with those dark eyes of his. There was nothing you could say to get him to relax, nothing you could do to make him trust you.

It had been a few days into your contemporary ‘house arrest’ and you know he’s taken all the liberties he possibly could. Windows locked (and with a tap to them when he’d excused himself to the bathroom, you discover they’re double-glazed), doors bolted shut. You’d come into the kitchen with him, feigning a pitiful nudge for attention against his arm with your head (considering your wrists were still bound), and stolen a quick glance in the cutlery drawer; knives appeared to have been moved, hidden even, and he certainly hadn’t been careless in their placement. On the occasions he’d let you shower, you found nothing of use, the house seeming devoid of razors and clippers and scissors-- essentials you had been counting on. You had definitely underestimated him. Definitely.

It stands to reason that you have to think outside the box, that you have to push yourself to think of something so crazy it works - and with the plan to seduce him into giving you more freedom tantalising on the brain, there is only so much progress you can make per day. Getting him to trust you has proven fruitless so far, the man not letting you out of his sight.

Currently, you’re sitting on the couch with him, the TV blaring in the background. You’re not listening - you never do. You’ve noticed that he tends to avoid the news channels. Perhaps he’s afraid of exposure? Maybe there’s somebody looking for you? Hell, what are the chances that there is a big band of people searching for you? You’d be lucky to have a few friends who had refused to give up hope.

Deciding to attempt something - because really, sitting there so close to him and doing nothing to make sure you don’t wind up like this in the future is making you feel queasy - you shift in closer, evident caution in your actions as you rest your head against his shoulder.

His dark eyes slowly shift from the television to glance at you, fear instilled in you the moment he does. He’s so intense, so incredibly threatening, and you know what those hands are capable of. As an arm slowly moves to wrap around your shoulders, guiding you against him, the thought lingers in your head:

He could kill me. He could murder me. He could kill me. He could murder me.

 **“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours...?”** he murmurs, hand reaching for the remote as he mutes the program and adjusts his body so that he’s facing your general direction, pulling you to lay against his front. The warmth you could bask in had you not known any better.

 **“...nothing,”** you whisper, averting your gaze to his chest. You have to lie. You have to lie well. **“...I’m just so glad I’m with you.”**

Q exhales in a way that implies you’re being petulant. **“I hope getting away isn’t on your mind.”** He chuckles darkly, a hand coming to rest on the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair and lightly pulling it. A shuddery breath passes your lips, eyes slipping closed as you attempt to rectify your resolve; it’s not all an act. You’re genuinely afraid of him, as much as you try to convince yourself that you’re not. **“I don’t wanna have to put you back down there. I like spending the days with you.”**

Bound wrists rest against his chest, the thump of his heartbeat echoing in your ears as the sound drums through every fibre of your being. Strange, considering you didn’t believe he had one. To be able to keep somebody against their will, to be able to hurt them like he’s hurt you... it takes something twisted, and evil, and sick to be able to do it, and you’re of the firm belief that his behaviour is the defining line between human and monster. Had that been the end of it, you’d probably have come to accept it, as sad as it was to admit. But because Brian flits so effortlessly between the two, sometimes so rough you swear he’ll kill you while other times, like now, he’s so soft you could really fall for it, you’re constantly left in the wake of his unpredictability.

 **“Please don’t put me back down there...”** The words have escaped your lips before you realise you’ve said anything and the distinct rumble in his chest alerts you that you’ve amused him.

 **“Behave yourself for me and I won’t,”** Brian replies fluidly, taking to petting you much like a cat. Speaking of which, you’re glad those things aren’t here either; perhaps moulded by their owner, they’re nothing but vicious to one another and when they fight you’re fearing for their lives. The only person they seem to respond positively to is Q himself, as if his charismatic charm you had fallen for extends to the felines too.

Mustering up courage, you pick up your head and wriggle up his body - earning a grunt from him - until you can reach his mouth with your own. He pulls back, shaking his head.

**“No.”**

**“Why not, Brian...?”** You force yourself to sound upset, though you couldn’t be more relieved. The man closes his eyes, crease in his brow putting you on edge.

**“...I kiss you. Not the other way around.”**

Your brows arch lightly in a way you hope is convincing. **“Oh...”**

You begin to get nervous as he stares at you for a few moments of tense silence, brow still lightly furrowed as he considers you. You’re sprawled on his front, the pleasant weight of you reminding him that he’d succeeded and that, though you’re most likely trying to play him right now, he is getting to feel you. The thought of you becoming tame (because it’s not uncommon for him to compare you to one of his cats, once feral, that had eventually calmed down when in his care) turns him on more than anything. The thought of him being able to untie you and you choosing to stay with him despite the opportunity to attempt to get away has him all but squirming in his seat. He’s got to stop-- he’s got a long way to go. You’re smart and tricky, unlike other people, and you have his attention in such a way because of these traits. Your intelligence makes him wary of you, always has, but he enjoys a challenge.

 **“Hey,”** Brian muses, voice seeming distant as he picks up your head with his finger and raises an eyebrow at you. Without another word, the man leans in and brushes his lips against yours. Shudders of both anticipation and revulsion are given off of your body and you have no choice but to kiss him back. He pulls back after a moment, surveys the ‘dazed’ expression on your face. **“I never said I _wouldn’t_ kiss you.”**


	4. Rekindled

Days turn into months and the time begins to slip by you. By the end of everything, you’re feeling hopelessly complacent. Brian hasn’t let his guard down once and you’re stuck thinking he never will. Perhaps you’ve met your match after all; perhaps you were never meant to escape.

Perhaps you were _meant_ to be with him.

It’s then that the depression sinks in. It’s tiredness as you go throughout your days, wrists aching maddeningly as the rope buries into your skin and rubs it raw; it’s going through the motions until your head hits the pillow in search of slumber; it’s actually obeying Brian, not because you want to get away, but because you’re too tired to do anything but. It’s a scary thought, giving in to the sensation of belonging to somebody else - and the more months that go by, the more you begin to accept it.

And Brian… Brian was anything but displeased with this development come the beginning. He sees himself in you, one of the main reasons he’d been drawn to you like a moth to a flame in the first place: you know when you’ve been beaten, outmatched, and so long as he displays that persona to you, one in which you cannot beat, he has you under his thumb.

However… your unmotivated mood is beginning to tick him off. He’d fallen for your spark, your spunk, your fire, and to see you reduced to leaning against him half-heartedly while he read a comic book or petted his cats was slowly beginning to make him seethe. He began to dislike you. He wanted the old [Y/N] back.

 **“[Y/N],”** he says firmly, walking into the room and watching as you tilt your head up to look at him. Defeated. And God, it makes him resent you. God damn it, you should be happy, should be pleased he’s doing all of this for you. Looking after you, keeping you safe, not letting anybody harm you, keeping the outside world away so that it can never hurt you again… and what do you do? You sit there and mope. His blood boils thickly at the thought. **“…what’re you doing?”**

 **“Waiting for you.”** The answer is immediate, dull. To the side, he notes the untouched food (though you’ve tried to make it look as if you’ve eaten parts of it, really, how stupid do you think he is?) and it makes him simmer. Lower lip is caught between his teeth and he bites down hard enough to draw blood. **”…I did eat.”**

The lie fills him with rage, but Brian swallows it down and, with a wry amount of skepticism, replies: **“I can see that.”**

You lying whore, you haven’t touched shit I’ve made for you.

You look up at him pitifully, blankly, resting your cheek against your palm as you draw your knees to your chest. Repeating: **“I did eat.”**

**“So you said.”**

**“I did.”**

**“…”**

For a tense minute or so, nothing is said and the tension is so thick it would put a diamond-cutter to shame. Can’t you see how angry you’re making him? Do you even understand how much he wants to hurt you right now, even if it’s only to beat you so that you cling to him and beg him not to do it again? Just for some fucking feeling from you.

You shift, as if you don’t comprehend the screaming behind his silence - and perhaps, at this time, you don’t - and pick up the plate with difficulty, balancing it precariously on your bound wrists. **“Brian–”**

He loses his temper there and then.

 **“I fucking HEARD YOU!”** the man shouts, leaning forwards and knocking the plate out of your hands with such force that your wrists jerk inwards. Clenched teeth signal your pain and it’s the lack of a cry or a scream that has him stalking towards you and grabbing a fistful of hair. **“What the fuck do I have to do to get you to act normally, huh? Tell me, [Y/N], because I’m sick to fucking death of you blanking me out– you can’t blank me out, [Y/N]!”**

He’s screaming by now, and the loud noise has you petrified. However, you don’t scream; you don’t cry; just whimper in his grasp, and that seems to make him even more outraged as he drags you from your position on the couch and pins you to the floor, pinning you to it with a knee digging into your thigh while his forearm crosses your throat. You writhe in fear, trying to force yourself free, but it doesn’t appear enough for him as he tilts his head, eyes wide with rage as he regards you. Teeth grit together and, if he could kill just by telling you how much he hated you in this very moment, he would have ten times over.

**“You’d better start talking, [Y/N], ‘cause I’m gonna choke you to goddamn death, I swear–”**

[E/C] eyes stare hopelessly at their attacker, for how can you speak when he’s crushing your windpipe? The life quickly begins to leave you, half-blackened vision swimming before your eyes and it’s in this moment that you accept that he could very well have taken a step too far and killed you.

That thought provokes unexpected malice to course through your veins.

It’s then that you begin to struggle more. The breath that’s quickly leaving your lungs is a sign to fight back, one you wouldn’t have had had he not lost his temper; a feeling of gratitude overcomes you, though not for his sake. You’d forgotten what it was like to have to struggle to live and, as sick as it was, perhaps that had been the very element you had missed. Since joining him in the house, the pair of you had fallen into a routine that was tiresome before it had even begun, leaning against him because you’d had no support of your own. It’s with both horror and anticipation that you realise this conflict, this physical harm, is revitalising you; rekindling an old spirit that had been extinguished due to acceptance.

You would accept **no more.**

You immediately reach further down your body rather than trying to raise your wrists to fight with them and drive your knuckles into his groin. Brian grunts in pain and, regardless of how much a mistake it had been, you do it again.

 **“Get off– FUCK OFF BRIAN!”** Fists continue to hit anything of him that they can and, eventually, he’s sent off of you. With bound wrists, you can’t do as much as you used to be able to but you’ll be damned if you’re going to go down without a fight. After months of accepting your defeat, the fire in your belly was a kick to the gut.

He sits above you, thighs having slid to either side of your legs, and heaves for breath. Anger has melted away into something far more tolerable, as if he’s pleased with the pain that radiates in his lower body. Laying there, struggling for breath, your eyes lock on his and silently probe him for an explanation. He, with a long sigh, deflates and pulls off of you completely, moving to lay beside you on the carpet.

 **“…I just wanted to see you again,”** Brian says quietly, and it’s with a great amount of self-control that you will yourself to keep a level tone throughout your fast breaths.

**“I never left.”**

Your captor gives you a look, deep brown eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place… before he leans in, takes your face in his hands and kisses you so softly you question if it had even happened. These sporadic changes in his personality, these unexpected blips in his chain of aggression… they all remind you that he can indeed be manipulated, and so it is with great strength that you force yourself to kiss him back. Anything to calm him down. Anything to make him back off. Anything to give you a way out.

Bound hands slide down to his thigh, knuckles rubbing softly at material. When he shifts closer to you, an arm sliding possessively around your waist and tugging you against his firm body, you know you have him.

 **“Never leave me like that again,”** Brian breathes, stroking your hair with his free hand before he tugs your head back gently and begins to kiss your exposed throat. As ill as it makes you feel, you have to admit it feels good. **“I need you like this… I need you…”**

You can only assume he means your sense of fight. And why wouldn’t he crave that, the sick bastard, for he likes to believe that he has the power to take hope away. As your knuckles graze over his pocket, your body pushing against his to mask the otherwise suspicious motion, you have to fight back a grin. He has no power over you. Not any more. Not now that you’ve been awakened to the truth.

He has a knife in his pocket.

And _you_ have an _**idea**_.


End file.
